


Sometimes That’s How it Goes

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, First Time, Friendship, Humor, Law School, M/M, Morning After, Multi, One-sided feelings, Pining, Romance, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-01-16 06:56:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18516238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: Five times Alexander sneaks out the morning after, and one time he doesn't.





	1. Angelica Schuyler

**Author's Note:**

> (See End Notes if you want 'ship spoilers.)

He is, without question, taking the coward's way out.

The certainty is not enough to alter Alexander's course. He moves with utmost caution as he removes himself from beneath the sheets without disturbing the bed's other occupant. He gathers his scattered clothing silently, dresses in what little light sneaks in between heavy curtains. It's daylight outside, but here in Angelica's room he is surrounded by a dim and sleepy cave. Comfortably cluttered. Exactly the sort of space Alexander would love if he weren't so desperate to make himself scarce.

He is being ridiculous. Rationally he knows this, _feels it_ when he glances toward the bed and sees Angelica soundly asleep. She's just as gorgeous now as she was last night, though her hair is a squashed mess and there's a furrow at the center of her brow.

One bare shoulder peeks up beneath the edge of the bed sheet, and Alexander's face heats as he remembers the rest of her is just as naked. He will cherish the memory of seeing the last piece of Angelica's wardrobe—a pale blue button-up shirt—drift carelessly to the floor, leaving her invitingly exposed before Alexander's roving eyes.

This is stupid. He should _stay_.

He has nothing to be ashamed of. No guilt. No reason _not_ to hook up with the smartest member of his law school cohort. Angelica Schuyler is clever as hell, and stunning too. He had a damn good time last night. He shouldn't be panicking and making a break for it just because the sun is up.

But despite this pragmatic conclusion, Alexander slips out of Angelica’s bedroom and closes the door as quietly as possible behind him.

He has things to collect out here too. His ill-fitting suit jacket, his wallet that fell out of his back pocket when Angelica groped him in the hallway, his shoes.

Fuck. His _shoes_. He spots one by the door exactly where he remembers stepping out of them, but the other is nowhere to be seen.

Unnecessary adrenaline surges in his chest as he scours the forest of pumps and high heels near the door without success. The apartment is perfectly still around him. Hopefully Peggy and Eliza are sleeping just as soundly as Angelica. Every tiny squeak of noise makes him sure someone will catch him sneaking out like a dumbass.

He's on the verge of giving up and leaving with only one shoe, a less than ideal prospect for so many reasons, ranging from can't-afford-a-new-pair to the looming challenge of public transit. His hand is already on the door knob anyway when a barely audible cough sounds behind him.

Alexander freezes. Closes his eyes for a defeated moment. Then blinks and puts his back to the door.

Peggy Schuyler stands between the couch and the dining table, right in the middle of the furniture-crowded common room. Her arms are crossed over a baggy _Battlestar Galactica_ t-shirt, and she raises one eyebrow so high it's invisible beneath curly, sleep-rumpled bangs.

He stares at her, caught-out and guilty.

"Really?" she asks. She keeps her voice down though, apparently not ready to throw him under the bus.

The problem is, whether or not he owes her an explanation, he doesn’t have one. Even in the privacy of his own mind Alexander isn't entirely certain why he's running.

Instead of trying to justify his stealthy retreat, he pitches his own voice low and asks, "Have you seen my other shoe?"

Peggy's second eyebrow rises to match the first, but after several seconds she turns to scan the apartment. "Libby probably took it."

Alexander gawps. "Your cat steals shoes?" Enormous as Libby is, he still can't quite picture it. It's sure as hell never happened before. In all the months he's been coming to the Schuyler sisters' apartment, to study and tackle group work with both Eliza and Angelica, he's never had to pause on his way out the door and track down missing footwear.

Then again, maybe he's never let himself get comfortable enough to take his shoes off before.

"Yup." Peggy moves quietly as she begins poking through the apartment, investigating possible nooks and crannies. "Shoes. Socks. Bras. She's a real go-getter. _Ha_!"

Peggy's hand vanishes into the circular hole at the top of a complicated cat tree. There doesn't appear to be a cat inside the box-shaped cave, but when her hand emerges she's holding Alexander's missing shoe.

Alexander tries to be subtle in glancing toward Angelica's bedroom door—still closed—but Peggy follows his gaze. A moment later and Peggy is standing directly in front of him, holding his shoe out. Alexander accepts the handoff gratefully, slipping it onto his foot without bothering to untie the ratty laces.

"Thanks." When he straightens, he finds Peggy watching him with an uncharacteristically kind expression.

"You okay?" Her arms are crossed again, but the pose doesn't look quite so forbidding this time. "I didn't peg you for the walk-of-shame type. You know it's cool, right? You can stay for breakfast. It's not gonna be some weird drama just because Eliza's got a crush on you. She's chill about this stuff."

Which is decisively _not_ why Alexander is leaving, but it still gives him a twinge of guilt. Sleeping with one sister when the other is smitten with him seems bad enough. But sister number three apparently knowing _every detail_? That's a whole extra tier of Nope. Even worse because Peggy is a college freshman—she's still a goddamn teenager—and yeah, Alexander's only got three years on her, but he hates that she knows exactly what he and Angelica were doing last night.

She probably overheard them. It's not like they were quiet. Fuck his _entire life_.

Eventually, in the face of persisting silence, Alexander remembers he's been asked a question.

"I'm fine," he says, and it doesn't feel like a lie. "I just need to be _not here_."

"She's gonna be pissed to wake up and find you gone." Peggy's serious expression makes him feel far too exposed. "Angelica doesn't kick guys out when she's done with them. Why don't you just _stay_. I'll brew coffee and make toast."

Coffee is tempting. A quiet morning with the Schuylers is tempting. Even staying to talk with Peggy awhile is tempting—Alexander already knew she was smart but apparently she's just as clever as her sisters—and at the mention of food his stomach rumbles.

But despite all these things, the thought of sitting at that table—of _being here_ when Angelica wakes—makes him want to crawl out of his skin.

"Thanks, but. I really have to go."

Then he shoves his way through the door without bothering to say goodbye.

He figures he'll see Angelica in class, but he's not surprised when she tracks him down even sooner, finding him at his favorite carrel in the library the very next day. There's no one else on here at this hour—no one likes to study at six in the morning—and Angelica grabs a chair and drags it over to sit beside him. She straddles the seat backwards and crosses her arm over the backrest. Drops her chin onto her wrists and regards him with significantly less anger than Alexander has been expecting.

In fact, she doesn't look angry _at all_ , and her quiet curiosity is disconcerting.

"Did I fuck something up?" she asks.

Alexander caps his highlighter and makes himself meet her eyes. "Of course you didn't."

She keeps peering at him—peering _through_ him—looking perfectly poised in her business casual outfit and tight ponytail. "How come you didn't stick around?"

Of all the possible paths forward, honesty seems least likely to bite him in the ass. "I don't really know."

"You do this to all your casual hookups? Or just the ones poised to clobber you for valedictorian?"

It's a teasing question—a nudge and also a tone clearly intended to lighten the mood—but the words themselves catch him off guard. He stares at Angelica with wide eyes.

Her expression visibly sharpens. "You don't have casual hookups?"

Alexander swallows and can't seem to scrounge up a deflection or look away.

Delicate eyebrows rise as Angelica reads between the lines. "You don't have _any_ hookups. You've never done this before."

Alexander's entire face flushes hot, and he knows it's all the confirmation she can possibly require. Somewhere beneath his embarrassment he's pleased she didn't suss out his inexperience last night—but mostly he just feels sheepish. Never mind that there is _nothing wrong_ with being a virgin; he still feels exposed and helpless at being _seen_.

"You could've told me."

"Yeah." He could have. But Alexander is stubborn, prideful, and desperate to prove himself. He will _always_ pretend experience and confidence he doesn't possess. Apparently this is a trait that holds true even in bed.

Silence holds for several uncomfortable seconds. It itches along Alexander's skin, guilty and lost and ridiculous.

Finally it's Angelica who breaks the silence. "Are we okay?"

Alexander startles straighter in his chair. "Of course we're okay." Then, because the way she's chewing on her lower lip makes him desperate to reassure, he says, "I had a really good time. It was fucking amazing. I freaked out a little, after, but it wasn't anything you did."

Angelica considers him wordlessly for a while. It’s a somber, heavy sort of scrutiny, as though making extra sure his words are truthful.

Finally—apparently satisfied—she lets a playful smile spread across her face. " _Fucking_ amazing, huh?" Before Alexander can catch up or conjure a retort, Angelica is on her feet. Tucking the chair back where she found it. Giving him a gentler look that he's not sure how to read.

After a brief hesitation, she braces one hand on the back of his chair and leans down. Moving slowly, obviously giving him the opportunity to protest, before pressing a light kiss to his mouth. It's over in an instant, a reassurance rather than a prelude. For some reason, this kiss leaves Alexander certain he won't be receiving another invitation to Angelica's bed—but equally certain they’re still friends.

"See you in class?" he asks when she straightens and turns to go. It's a pathetic final volley, but it's all he has.

Angelica tosses a grin over her shoulder. "Sure will. Don't study too hard, nerd."

Alexander laughs and reaches for his case book. Back to work once more, lighter and calmer and finally at ease.


	2. Hercules Mulligan

If sneaking out on Angelica was cowardice, sneaking out on Hercules is absurdity.

Ridiculous, to be moving so quietly through his own damn apartment. Alexander could just take a shower and go back to his room. His empty bed. And trust that when his roommate wakes up they will have a reasonable, rational conversation about last night.

Fuck, this is going to be awkward though. He and Hercules have shared an apartment since college, and they've never crossed a line like this. Yeah, they've flirted, and Alexander thinks they made out at a party once. But considering how drunk they both were at the time, he doesn't entirely trust his memory. Hercules has never said a word about it, and Alexander has never asked. Some things are easier to leave alone.

He wonders if _this_ could be one of those things. It's not like he plans to do anything drastic. He's not going to move out—no amount of awkwardness can scare him away from a living situation this good, or from a friendship as steady as Herc's.

But he also can't shake the feeling that he's fucked up irreparably. Rational or not, the anxiety clings to him like a fog as he finishes dressing and slowly-silently-stealthily packs his most urgent assignments into a battered backpack.

They weren't even drinking last night. He doesn't have the excuse of alcohol; he doesn't have _any excuse at all_. Just the fact that Hercules was smiling—laughing at him from across the couch as Alexander freaked out over losing his only green highlighter—and suddenly the stress of school had seemed so silly. Hercules looked so inviting and calm, so _warm_ , and Alexander only meant to tackle him as a joke. For fuck's sake, they were two dudes who had lived together for years, of course they were going to roughhouse to let off steam once in a while.

Going from wrestling to kissing was _not_ part of the plan. But somehow it felt like a good idea at the time, as did everything that followed. All the way into Herc's bedroom.

All the way into his bed.

Alexander has new information to process now. Apparently he enjoys sex with men just as much as sex with women. He likes topping, but hell, maybe next time he'd rather find out what it's like to have a cock in _his_ ass. Also Hercules Mulligan is a fantastic kisser, an attentive partner, and damn good with his hands.

And apparently Alexander's Morning After Problem wasn't a one-time fluke.

Even as he slips out onto the landing, checking for his keys before shutting the door and starting downstairs, Alexander marvels at the fact that he is sneaking out of his own apartment. 

He doesn't even have class on Saturdays. He has no reason to visit campus beyond his desperation to not be at home. But he buries himself in the library, throwing himself into the familiar patterns of case law and course work, using his assignments to block out all the other noise in his brain.

Barely halfway through the morning, Alexander realizes how poorly he planned his escape. His stomach grumbles, loud and jarring, and he abruptly notices he is _hungry_. It's not even ten o'clock yet, and his body is simultaneously protesting the lack of breakfast and wondering when it will be time for lunch. _Fuck_. He didn't even think to grab a granola bar on his way out the door.

The predictable result is, he simply does not eat. He can't afford to throw money at the cafeteria's perfectly passable grilled cheese. And since John Laurens is also never on campus on Saturday, there's no chance of his best friend showing up to insist on buying him lunch.

He could suck it up and go home. He _should_ go home. The fact that Hercules hasn't texted him doesn't mean his friend _isn't_ worried. It just means Herc knows to give him space and let Alexander untangle his own bullshit.

But he keeps working, stubborn disaster that he is. Yeah, he's hungry, but he knows how to ignore all kinds of physical discomfort. He's got plenty of practice.

By the time he's ready to concede defeat, his hands are shaky and his head throbs. He's managed to finish half his assignments for the coming week, even if he can't vouch for the quality of his work through those last couple hours. It's nearly six o'clock, and if he doesn't go home and eat something, the library staff are liable to find him passed out in the stacks.

He reluctantly packs his things and hoists his bag onto both shoulders. Makes his way out of the library—out of the building entirely—into pleasant weather and a breeze that feels incredible to his aching head.

The fact that he's leaving via the faculty parking lot doesn't consciously register until he nearly trips over a perfectly tailored suit.

Rather, it's not the suit he nearly trips over, but the tall professor wearing it. Alexander's head comes up with startled speed, but in his effort to _not_ plow directly into George Washington's broad chest he overcompensates, drawing up so short he nearly falls over. A hand shoots out to steady him and catches him around the elbow. A powerful grip, long fingers, and when Alexander looks down at the point of contact, he finds himself staring instead of apologizing for nearly knocking Professor Washington over.

“Mr. Hamilton.” Washington’s brow is furrowed when Alexander's gaze belatedly rises, an expression of concern, and he doesn’t let go. “You look pale. Are you ill?”

Alexander barely quashes a helpless, exhausted bark of laughter. He must look truly awful to put that expression of unvarnished worry on the man’s usually stern face.

The hand at his elbow feels good—grounding—and Alexander swallows past complicated feelings. He forces himself to casually shake the touch away, even though it’s the last thing he wants to do.

George Washington is not one for physical contact. Alexander once saw him make a student cry just by _looking at them_ , after the dude accepted a dare and patted him amiably on the back. He has never touched Alexander before, and he probably never will again. It seems a cruel loss, not to mention a waste when Alexander is too tired and hungry and hurting to properly enjoy the moment.

“I’m okay,” Alexander lies. “Late night. I’m headed home to get some rest.”

Washington peers at him for several dubious seconds before offering, “Can I give you a ride there? You look like you’re about to fall over.”

Alexander’s pride pricks at the implication that he needs to be taken care of. Some glimmer of this must sneak into his face, because Washington doesn’t push.

“I’ll be fine,” Alexander insists. “Home isn’t far. Besides, you don’t want to be late for your class.” He bites his tongue, remembering too late that he probably shouldn’t have Professor Washington’s schedule memorized. He’s got _one class_ with the man, and has only to approached him via office hours a couple times. This despite a decisive effort to conjure more credible excuses.

If only Washington taught a class Alexander could struggle with. If only Alexander _actually needed help_. It’s too bad he’s got such a good head for constitutional law.

Then again, he’d rather impress Washington than disappoint him any day.

“All right,” Washington says at last, nodding like they’ve reached some understanding. “Goodnight, then. I hope you feel better.” Then he’s gone, scanning his key card over the panel by the door and disappearing into the school.

Alexander shakes off the haze and turns his footsteps toward home.

The second he steps across the threshold and into his apartment, his mouth starts to water at the smell of food. Hamburgers. He can hear them sizzling noisily from the kitchen. Fuck. Hercules is _cooking dinner_.

Alexander sets his bag down by the door and toes off his ratty sneakers. Shuffles quietly and awkwardly down the entry hall and into the tiny kitchen. He still doesn’t know what he’s going to say. He doesn’t know if Herc will be angry, if they’re going to be okay. He fucked up again, no question. Only the consequences remain to discover.

Hercules glances up from the stove even though Alexander has barely made a sound. His expression is bland, his face handsome and familiar.

_Still_ Alexander doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say. He doesn’t like being at a loss for words.

“Did you eat anything today?” Hercules asks knowingly.

Alexander scowls at the floor. “No.”

“Then sit the fuck down. Food’s almost ready.”

“You didn’t have to do this,” Alexander protests. This isn’t fair. He took off like an asshole. Why is Herc’s response to pamper him instead of tearing his head off like he deserves?

He doesn't obey the command. Instead Alexander crosses the kitchen, all the way to Herc's side. There's a click as Hercules turns the stove off. Alexander barely waits for him to take his hand off the knob before ducking forward to initiate a clumsy but earnest hug.

His arms circle Herc's waist and he squashes his face into his friend's shoulder. Feels awkward as hell in the surprised moment of stillness that follows, but then Hercules is draping his arms forward. Looping them loosely around Alexander without holding on too tight.

"I'm sorry." Alexander's voice is barely audible, the words muffled in Herc's sweater.

"I don't need an apology," Hercules says, sounding utterly sincere.

"But I shouldn't have ditched like that." He continues to hide his face in Herc's shoulder, even though he feels more ridiculous by the second. "It was a shitty thing to do."

"I wouldn't have minded a text to tell me you were alive," Hercules concedes, but stubbornly refuses to give any other ground.

Alexander finally eases back. Lets go. Retreats a step so he can look Hercules in the eye.

"Why aren't you mad at me?"

"Because sometimes sex fucks things up." Hercules shrugs. "Even sex with friends. Maybe _especially_ sex with friends. I'd rather know you're okay than hold a grudge."

"Oh."

" _Are_ you okay?"

Alexander tries not to tarry in collecting his words—every second of silence is liable to register as a negative—and the last thing he wants is to make Hercules feel guilty for no reason.

"I'm good now," he answers after only a heartbeat too long. "I don't know why I took off."

Hercules knows about Angelica. He knows about Alexander's vanishing act, which is apparently in danger of becoming a habit. Which means, hopefully, he knows not to take it personally that Alexander crept out of his bed—out of their apartment—before the sun was even up.

It occurs to Alexander that things are going to be weird as hell for a while. He's seen Hercules naked—a beautiful view—seen him turned-on and eager and amorous. He knows what Herc's wide, powerful body feels like both on top of him and beneath him. He knows what those gorgeous hands can do.

And now, here in their kitchen the very next day, Hercules is watching him like the exasperated friend he is. Nothing more complicated than that. The juxtaposition makes Alexander's head hurt.

"Here." Hercules scoops the cooked hamburger patties onto two plates already waiting with buns and condiments. He hands one to Alexander without ceremony.

"Thanks." Alexander stares down at his dinner. His stomach is rumbling, but it takes him a moment to collect himself.

"Still okay?" Hercules asks.

Alexander shakes free of his stupor. "Yeah," he says, and turns toward the table.


	3. Aaron Burr

When he wakes in Aaron Burr's bed, Alexander feels none of the confused ambivalence that followed both Angelica and Hercules. There is only the obvious fact that he needs to make his escape right the fuck now. He can't be here when Burr rouses; his pride won't take it.

Burr is insufferable enough in class, arguing all the wrong points and yet doing it eloquently enough to get an entire room of their peers nodding along. The last thing Alexander needs is whatever smug look he'll find on his rival's face if Burr catches sight of him like this. Rumpled and even more exhausted than usual—neither one of them slept much last night—covered in hickeys, probably looking like he's been up to _exactly_ the things that kept them awake until nearly dawn.

Alexander will say this for Burr: the guy has stamina. That he has a damnably clever mouth too is a bonus Alexander is already trying to put out of mind.

At least he can be reasonably confident he impressed Burr in kind. Burr is too guarded—too reticent and cagey—to ever let loose unless he's sincerely enjoying himself. The sounds he made when Alexander went down on him? All the evidence required to prove Alexander's first time sucking cock was a mind-blowing success.

He likes knowing he's good at this. He _always_ likes excelling at things, but it turns out there's something fundamentally satisfying about giving head.

He still has zero intention of sticking around.

Fortunately, Burr is a heavy sleeper. He doesn't stir as Alexander squirms free from the loose circle of his arms. Even asleep, Burr is infuriatingly handsome and put-together. He could blink awake, pull on some clothes, and stroll out the door, and no one would know what he's been up to.

Fucking hell. Alexander _slept with Burr_ last night. And even now, wondering what the hell he was thinking, he can't stop his eyes from lingering along the sharp lines of Burr's chest and shoulders where the blanket has fallen aside.

It's not Alexander's fault his academic arch-nemesis is so goddamn pretty.

He's dressed by the time he escapes into the hallway and pulls Burr's bedroom door closed behind him. From there it's a quick scramble to gather his schoolwork from the coffee table. He still can't figure out how they went from working on the world's dullest team project—honestly, fuck the Uniform Commercial Code—to making out. One moment he was staring blearily at a wall of text and clauses, and the next he was marveling at Burr's tongue in his mouth.

Chalk one up to exhaustion and bad judgment. Problem is, it seemed like a perfectly good idea at the time. To climb astride Burr's lap. To let slender arms wrap around him with surprising strength, or nimble fingers tug his messy bun loose and toss the elastic band god-only-knows where.

Alexander does not bother looking for his hair tie now. He focuses on collecting the rest of his things as quickly as possible and shoving everything into his bag.

He makes a clean escape. Quick. Burr has no roommate to share this immaculate and expensive-looking apartment, which means there's no one for Alexander to dodge as he retreats for the front door. He slips through with a sigh of relief and tugs it carefully, _quietly_ shut behind him.

The reprieve will be painfully temporary. Burr is still his partner for this stupid project, and while they've definitely reached the home stretch, there's also no way they can finish without meeting in person.

At least their deadline isn't for another two weeks—just before midterms—which means he should be able to dodge Burr for a few days. Maybe right up to the buzzer. The thought braces him. He can figure out how to keep this from turning into something complicated.

Maybe they won't even have to talk about it.

Exhausted as Alexander is, he wishes like hell he could go home and sleep. Instead, he hauls ass to campus, to get his hands on the library's copies of two supplemental textbooks he couldn't fit into his budget. If he gets there early enough, both should be available at once. He'll be damned before he goes into Professor Jefferson's class without finishing all the extra reading.

Later, long after the sun has come up—while Alexander is standing at the copy machine xeroxing the handful of pages he _knows_ he'll need for later—John appears at his side, nearly giving him a heart attack.

"Fucking _hell_ , make a little noise next time!" He's lucky he wasn't actually touching the copy machine when John materialized; he probably would've botched the settings and wasted money he can't spare.

"Sorry." John does not look sorry at all.

Alexander glares at his best friend. "What the hell are you doing here so early?" It's barely nine in the morning. John's first Tuesday class starts at noon.

"Breakfast." John grins wider as he holds a paper bag aloft in one hand, a cardboard coffee carrier with two reusable to-go cups in the other. Both bear the logo of Alexander's favorite coffee shop—the one just far enough from campus to be a pain in the ass—delicious and dirt cheap, which is exactly the combination he requires.

Alexander blinks, genuinely surprised. John treats him to coffee and crullers all the damn time, but there's usually at least the pretense of a reason. Meeting up on purpose before class. Fortifying them both for a marathon study session. Shared plans with enough explanation to _not_ prick alexander's irascible pride.

He's getting better about the pridefulness problem, at least where John Laurens is concerned, but still. There are ways they've _always_ done things. For John to abruptly and unilaterally change the rules is strange.

"Thanks," Alexander says, before awkward silence can close in. "I just need to copy a few more pages, and then I'm good until ten."

Once he and John are tucked in a quiet corner on the third floor—no chairs, but the floor is clean and there's an outlet to charge his dead phone—he asks, "What's the occasion?"

John, with his godawful dissembling skills, immediately looks guilty. "Why does there have to be an occasion?"

Alexander lowers the donut he was about to bite into and thuds his head back against the wall. "Oh my god. Hercules called you. He sent you to fucking _check up on me_."

"He did mention you never came home last night and weren't answering texts."

" _My phone died_." Alexander gestures to where it lies charging on his knee, a brick until it's got enough juice to turn on. "For fuck's sake, you two are such mother hens."

John drops the attempt to look innocent and shrugs. "Maybe. Would it kill you to send an _I'm not dead_ text at least? Trust me, it'd go a long way."

Alexander scowls and takes a sullen bite of his cruller, not deigning to answer.

"So?" John prods with a tone that is clearly meant to be casual and falls comedically short of the mark. "What's up? Did you fall asleep in the library again?"

Alexander reaches for his coffee as an excuse to avoid the intensity in John's eyes. "No. I didn't fall asleep in the library." There's no point bluffing—he's even worse at it than John is—and refusing to answer will be as obvious an admission as simply fessing up from jump. "I was working on a team project."

"A _team project_ ," John echoes, in a tone that says he knows _exactly_ what Alexander hasn't said. It's a complicated tone. Light on the surface—John is obviously teasing and there's no malice anywhere to be found—but Alexander knows his best friend too well _not_ to read the deeper meaning below.

John is desperate to know who Alexander slept with. Even worse, John is jealous. And the fact that he'll never actually admit it doesn't make Alexander feel any less guilty.

No point dragging this out. Alexander hesitates only long enough to take a long, slow sip of coffee before meeting John's eyes.

"Do me a favor and don't spread it around?" His sheepish blush is no put-on. "Angelica is one thing, but if anyone finds out I slept with Burr—"

" _Aaron Burr_?" John gawps.

"Jesus, announce it to the whole school why don't you."

"Sorry." John's voice lowers once more to something discreet and private. "Just couldn't believe my ears for a second. I always figured you'd stab Burr in the face before midterms." The imperfect facade of humor is back.

Alexander rolls his eyes. "I still might."

John snorts, a more sincere sound of amusement, and the moment passes. Smooth enough. Alexander focuses on his donut, and on his latte, and leaves the subject alone.

Later, when he turns his phone back on to a flurry of missed text messages, Alexander is startled to see there's already one from Burr.

_You left your income tax case supplement on my kitchen counter. How soon do you need it back?_

Fuck. It must've fallen out of his bag. And he needs it _now_. Income tax is his two o'clock tomorrow, and if he doesn't do the reading tonight, he won't have time between conlaw and his Law Review meeting. He can't simply wait until he and Burr cross paths later this week.

_You on campus today?_ he texts back, hoping like hell the answer is yes, and that he hasn't waited so long Burr left the book at home. If Alexander needs to haul his ass all the way to Burr's apartment he will, but he won't be happy about it.

_In the library right now. Second floor, back study room. I brought the book._

Thank fuck. Alexander checks the clock at the top of his phone screen—he's got fifteen minutes until class—and sends one more text. _On my way_.

The study rooms in the library are hot commodities, usually reserved for meetings and crowded group projects. To monopolize one while working alone is apt to earn glares and whispers, but somehow Alexander isn't surprised to find Burr has the space to himself.

"Selfish much?" Alexander says once the door is shut. His tone is simultaneously ribbing and earnest, because honestly, it's the principle of the thing.

Without looking up from his computer, or even ceasing to type, Burr retorts, "Madison and Theo just left. But go ahead and judge, I know how you need to feel superior in all things." The words are exactly as biting as Alexander _always_ expects from Burr, and the fact is oddly reassuring. Maybe this won't be so bad.

Without leaving his place by the door, Alexander quashes a biting reply and says only, "Thanks for bringing my stuff."

Burr shrugs one shoulder. "Figured if it was in your bag last night, you probably need it today." He stops typing and closes his laptop, then leans over toward where his bag must sit on the floor. When he straightens again, his eyes are piercing and Alexander's book is in his hand. He holds it out in offering. But when Alexander crosses the study room and takes hold, Burr doesn't immediately let go.

Alexander gives a slightly harder tug, and when Burr continues to hold on, he arches one eyebrow in wordless question.

There's something more cautious than usual in Burr's tone when he says, "I'm sorry if I was out of line last night."

Alexander's other eyebrow rises and he ignores the burn of heat in his cheeks. "The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Burr withdraws his hand from the book and scoots his chair to face Alexander directly. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in the seat. Looking cool and implacable and yet somehow concerned at the same time.

"You left in a hurry," Burr observes.

"I needed to catch an early bus."

"You could've woken me up."

Alexander stares, hating the fact that suddenly he's the asshole. Never mind their perpetual sparring. He _could_ have woken Burr this morning, instead of vanishing without a word. Considering he had a damn good time last night—never mind the perplexing detail of whose bed he was in—a goodbye wasn't so much to ask.

"I'm sorry," he says, even though apologizing for things always makes his skin prickle, and apologizing to _Aaron Burr_ is even worse. "I'm not very good at mornings. Or sticking around for them. I'm kind of a dick that way."

Burr's expression softens into something that could almost be mistaken for affection. "You're kind of a dick in _plenty_ of ways."

"Fuck you," Alexander retorts, but for once there's no real heat in it. And then, because Burr is still watching him a little too intently, he braces himself and says, "You weren't out of line. And I hope I wasn't either. It was just… a bad idea."

"An enjoyable bad idea, at least?" Burr presses carefully.

Alexander can't help cracking a smile. "Yeah, I'll give you that one."

"Good."

And damn it, the look on Burr's face isn't smug at all. Pleased as hell and clearly not trying to hide it, but there's something almost conspiratorial in the smile. Like a shared secret rather than wry judgment.

"This doesn't have to be weird," Alexander says in a tone that's more baldly hopeful than he might have preferred. "It doesn't have to be a _thing_ , okay? I'm still going to kick your ass on our appellate arguments, and we're still gonna get a perfect score on this stupid U.C.C. assignment."

_Now_ Burr's expression is more smirk than smile, rising to Alexander's challenge without rancor. "I guess we'll have to wait and see."

Alexander rolls his eyes, mostly for show, and turns for the door. "See you in class."

"See you around," Burr agrees, and lets him withdraw without another word.


	4. John Laurens

Sneaking out of John's bed may be an act of desperate panic, but it's also the only possible option. It's the sensible choice, for completely different reasons than skulking from Burr's apartment made sense. Practical in only the most selfish of ways, but practical just the same.

Alexander will have enough of a mess to untangle as it is. The smart thing is to get his own head sorted out first.

At the moment, he can't sort _anything_ out, can't especially think with the dull way his temples are throbbing. As hangovers go, this is among the tamest he's had. But it still fucks with his equilibrium and makes it difficult to process his godawful choices.

Alexander pauses in his stealthy retreat just long enough to put a couple advil and a glass of water on John's bedside table—at the far edge where they won't be knocked to the floor by a flailing hand. He's not sure if John will be waking in the same pronounced discomfort, but it seems likely. They were pretty evenly matched last night.

The painkillers he swallowed himself are still nowhere near kicking in as he lets himself out of the building and into a chilly, gusty morning. Despite the sun Alexander curses, cold in a thin jacket that is nowhere near warm enough for the sudden turn of the weather. He doesn't have a decent winter jacket yet—the one that saw him through the last several years has grown too ragged for a law school campus full of people he's desperate to impress—and he's been hoping for stubborn autumn to hold out a little longer.

It should, by all rights, already be winter. There should be snow on the ground. But up until a couple days ago, the weather was bright and dry and unseasonably warm.

Apparently he pushed his luck too far. Alexander curses under his breath as he hurries along the sidewalk. He wraps his arms around himself, shivering uncomfortably. Absolutely miserable.

At least John lives close to campus. A dozen blocks and Alexander will be able to slip indoors. He has no classes today—he never does on Sundays—but campus should be nearly deserted, which suits him just fine. Even without his backpack and casebooks, there are plenty of assignments he can bury himself in. There is plenty of work to keep him busy with the end of the semester rapidly approaching, and he can find somewhere other than his usual haunts. Hell, maybe he'll start filling out the paperwork for the summer externship he wants to apply for in the spring.

Robert Morris has made it clear he can find Alexander a useful position in his office, something that will provide excellent experience and create all kinds of networking opportunities. Never mind that Morris only knows who Alexander is thanks to Washington, or that the whole thing reeks of nepotism. Alexander is fast discovering that nepotism makes an attorney's world go round, and he can't afford to let pride hold him back from an advantage like this.

Relief—not to mention grateful warmth—flows through Alexander when he steps across the wide threshold and into a high-ceilinged entry foyer. There's a long desk along one wall, both security and for greeting guests to campus. Behind it sit both an admin and a campus security guard. A giant sandwich-board sign proclaims that there's some sort of meet-and-greet for prospective students this morning. A brunch event. Which means the halls won't be nearly as deserted as Alexander expected—or hoped—and he considers stepping right back outside.

After all, he's already frozen through. And his own damn apartment isn't that much farther to walk. Another twenty minutes. Seemed worth waiting for the day to warm up a little when he thought the school would be a ghost town, but now? Fuck this. Who knows how much of the faculty is required to make an appearance at this shindig, never mind the hundreds of college students sticking their noses everywhere.

At least the throbbing in his head has quieted significantly. With a sheepish wave at the curious occupants of the welcome desk—he recognizes them both but would be hard-pressed to conjure their names—Alexander turns to go back the way he came.

"Alexander?" A familiar voice with a heavy French accent calls from behind him.

Alexander's eyebrows rise high, and he turns around. Finds Lafayette sitting on one of the uncomfortable wooden benches that lines the giant circular room just past the desk. On successfully catching his eye, Lafayette breaks into a massive grin.

Despite his tired tension, Alexander smiles in answer, already moving to sit beside his friend.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Alexander demands. Lafayette isn't a law student. He's still in college and already locked in to attend a completely different grad program. Organic chemistry: about as far from a J.D. as it's possible to get.

Lafayette grins wider, a mischievous expression that flashes infuriatingly perfect teeth. "George convinced me to attend this farce as his supposed protégé. In truth to provide moral support, I think. He is not fond of these… how does he call them… dog and donkey shows?"

Alexander barks a laugh, even as his insides tighten with irrational jealousy. The fact that Lafayette and George Washington know each other well—a connection that goes all the way back to Lafayette getting in some trouble as an exchange student in high school—has always sat with him strangely. There's nothing at all wrong with a successful lawyer mentoring an ambitious young man. But Alexander can't deny their connection ignites something petty and petulant inside him.

It did right from the first time Lafayette introduced Alexander to the man who appears to have wholeheartedly embraced the role of Laf's surrogate father. Even then the two were easy with each other—and even then Alexander found himself staring at Washington, struck with an immediate and hungry sort of hero worship that hasn't abated since.

The fact that he eventually forged his own strange bond with Washington quiets only some of the envy in Alexander's chest. His is a connection equal parts admiration, intellect, defiance and desperation to prove himself. That Washington values him is easily proven. What maddens Alexander is that he can never tell just how deep that appreciation might run. Add to that the newer, more complicated interest Alexander has begun to feel, and it's really a wonder he's managed to focus on schoolwork this semester.

He prays none of this registers on his face in any way Lafayette might decipher.

"The event is in Hall C," Alexander points out reasonably, a fact he knows from his brief perusal of the signboard. "What the hell are you doing all the way out here?"

"George had a spot of work to finish before meeting me, and I have no intention of venturing into the arena alone."

Alexander snorts in amusement, but it's not as though he disagrees with the sentiment.

"And you?" Lafayette gives him a canny look. "My friend, you look like death, and George was quite adamant you do not have business on campus today. Why are _you_ here, and so poorly dressed for the weather?"

Alexander blinks as he parses Lafayette's question, and the implications beneath the words. That Lafayette might wonder seems straightforward. But the idea that Washington knows _Alexander's_ schedule well enough to answer for him is something else entirely. An unexpected and pleasing something else. He tucks the information away to consider later.

But Lafayette is still watching him, curiosity and patience glinting in clever eyes.

Alexander clears his throat and looks to the floor. He could dodge the question completely. This is a poor spot for an interrogation. But then Laf will worry, and surely a partial explanation will be better than nothing.

"I made a mistake last night," he admits, voice deliberately low.

"What kind of mistake?" The question is gentle, yet impossible to evade.

Alexander inhales slowly. So much for partial explanations. "A John-Laurens-shaped mistake."

Lafayette draws in a long breath that whistles a little between his teeth, and Alexander can't tell if the sound signals judgment or sympathy. Maybe a little of both. Lafayette is John's friend too. And he's too damn smart _not_ to have an idea of exactly how badly Alexander just fucked up.

Alexander isn't great at empathy—has to remind himself sometimes that other people have feelings—so for him to know John's been head-over-heels for ages? That's gotta mean everyone else knows too.

After a silence probably calculated to let him keep talking, Lafayette says, "What happened?" Not _what did you do_ , or _what the fuck were you thinking_. It's a gentler inquiry than the situation probably warrants.

Alexander closes his eyes and shakes his head, slumping against the arm of the bench. "I fucked up an assignment. _Huge_ part of my grade, and I'm still not sure how to fix it. And when John invited me over to drink and rant about it, I said yes." The alcohol isn't as much to blame as he wishes it were. Yeah, they were both distinctly tipsy, but he still knew all the reasons _not_ to reach for John. And John sure as hell wasn't going to reach for _him_ ; years of close friendship have already proven that. It's not as though they haven't been drunk together before.

But Alexander wasn't just intoxicated last night. He was angry, and exhausted, and scared of losing a lifetime of momentum over one stupid assignment for a professor who hates him. He was desperate for a distraction. And just like goddamn always, he's gone and done something unforgivably selfish, and he can't take it back.

Fucking hell. John knows Alexander doesn't feel that way about him. A mutual attraction has never turned into anything deeper than friendship from where Alexander is sitting. Which means even now John is probably waking up alone, feeling used and hurt and maybe a little betrayed.

"Have I _always_ been this shitty a friend?" Alexander asks softly, opening his eyes and staring at the opposite wall.

"Non." Lafayette sounds downright pitying, and Alexander can't bear to look at him. "You are not a bad friend. You simply made a mistake."

Alexander has a dozen possible retorts to this statement, all of them brutal and self-deprecating. But before he can voice any of them, motion in his peripheral vision draws his eyes to a familiar figure in a charcoal-gray suit. By the time his gaze reaches the man's face, Alexander already knows exactly who is approaching.

He bites his tongue—he'll be damned before he gives _George Washington_ a glimpse of his hungover personal drama. He wants this man to like and respect him, damn it. This shit-show does _not_ need to feature.

"Alexander." Surprised pleasure reflects in Washington's eyes even though he doesn't smile. "Good morning, my boy."

_My boy_. God, he says it with such an easy rumble of gravel, and it's just not fair. Alexander scrambles to his feet, ignoring the heat rising to his face in favor of trying not to look like a complete dumbass.

"Good morning, sir. Laf tells me you got cornered for today's event."

"Yes." Washington's expression turns wry. "But what are you doing here? Surely they haven't started press-ganging students. Even the best and brightest— _especially_ the best and brightest. You have enough to contend with."

Alexander's chest feels like it might explode at the casual praise, but all he says is, "I'm just here to grab a couple things from the library. No recruiting event for me." Not an entirely truthful answer, but close enough.

"Well." Washington sets a hand to his shoulder and gives a warm squeeze. "Stay out of trouble. I'll see you in class." Then Washington simply turns and goes. Not waiting for an acknowledgment, and obviously assuming Lafayette will fall into step beside him.

Lafayette does join Washington en route down the hall—but not before locking Alexander with a shrewd look. Comprehension glitters in the expression, and Alexander's face heats. Never mind that his friend will never breathe a word about his infatuation. Alexander still hates that Lafayette recognizes the problem in the first place.

The two men vanish around a corner, leaving Alexander alone beside the bench. He stands there for a long moment, feeling lost. Feeling exhausted and weak and helpless. He would probably be hungry too if his sullen hangover weren't making him nauseous. He doesn't want to stay here. Bad enough Washington saw him like this; Alexander does not cherish the thought of the man looking again and noticing what a wreck he is.

Even the inevitable awareness of just how cold it is outside can't coax Alexander to hold his ground under these circumstances. He pivots sharply and storms right back out the door that brought him, into wind so cold he thinks it might be about to snow.

Home is no kind of sanctuary. There's the fleeting blessing that his roommate is not here—Hercules works predictable hours in a tailor's shop so it must be some social call that's summoned him away on a Sunday—and Alexander is able to sprawl across their crappy but comfortable couch. Aspirin in one hand, an enormous glass of water in the other, granola bar and phone in the front pocket of the hoodie he puts on to combat the chill in his bones. He'll eat the granola bar as soon as his stomach settles a little, maybe once the blanket he's burrowed beneath manages to warm his shivering limbs.

He doesn't intend to fall asleep, but he nods off with remarkable speed after swallowing the aspirin tablets. Wakes again at the chime and buzz of his phone, muted beneath blanket and sweatshirt. He feels groggy and just as nauseous as before. He never did actually eat the damn granola bar. He takes it out now, along with his phone, ready to concede that he needs _something_ in his stomach, settled or not.

He chews as he checks the new text message, tensing when he sees it's from John. No actual surprise there—of course John is texting. He's probably been waiting all day for Alexander to break the world's most awkward radio silence.

It's nearly three o'clock now, if Alexander's phone is to be believed. No wonder his head hurts in new and exciting ways. He's probably dehydrated, and this cardboard-inspired granola bar is the only thing he's eaten all day.

The text from John is simple and sparse. _Can I come over_?

John wouldn't normally bother to ask. Not like this. He might check to see if Alexander is actually home, or where on campus he's hiding out to study, but texting to ask permission? That's not something either one of them has ever done, and Alexander's heart twinges at the fact that John is asking now.

_Yeah_ , he texts back, much as he might prefer to delay. They need to talk—no way around it—and it's not as though extra time will make the conversation less painful. _I'm at home_.

It only takes John a few minutes to make the drive, close as he lives—Alexander wistfully imagines owning a car—and lets himself into the apartment with his own copy of the key even before Alexander manages to untangle himself from the blankets on the couch.

There's an agonizing moment of perfect stillness—perfect silence—after John shuts the door. A strained sort of staring contest as John stands just inside the threshold and Alexander freezes half off the couch. Alexander has one foot on the floor, one hand braced on the arm of the couch, and his entire center of gravity has shifted forward with interrupted momentum.

Finally John breaks the standoff by dropping his gaze and toeing off his boots. Alexander eases back down into the corner of the couch. Wary. Guilty. Painfully off-balance.

"Hi," he says when John raises his head again. It's fucking weird to see John wear such a deliberately blank face, and even weirder to be unable to read _anything at all_ beneath it. Alexander's _not_ great at reading people—he knows it's a strategic weakness—but he can usually tell what's going on in John's head. To be left without even a hint is disconcerting as hell.

He doesn't like it one fucking bit.

"Hey," John says. Then, after several seconds of fumbling hesitation and that frustratingly blank face, "So on a scale from zero to infinity, how bad did I fuck up last night?"

"What?" Alexander's eyes widen, and _now_ he bursts up from the couch. "No. No way. If anyone fucked up last night it was me. Jesus, John, I shouldn't have— I don't know how to— I'm sorry." His mouth snaps shut, and he hates this so much. The inability to find the right words, the impossibility of mitigating the harm he's done to his closest friendship.

A crack breaks through John's poker face and an edge of hurt shows through. "I know you're not into me. Not the way I'm into you. Just because we never talk about it doesn't mean I _don't know_." The crack widens and fractures, radiating outward, and more wounded rejection glints in the spaces between.

"John…" Alexander hates feeling helpless. He hates having no idea what to say.

"I'm not trying to corner you," John says. "I won't stay. I just needed to see you, and apologize, and… Fuck, I don't know. I don't know _why_ I'm here. I probably shouldn't have chased you down like this, but I couldn't—"

"Hey." Alexander interrupts the frantic spiral of John's words. His friend has no armor left at all now, and the knife of remorse in Alexander's gut twists sharply. Makes him want to rush forward and hug the distress away—an urge so powerful he takes an involuntary step forward—when that is definitely the worst possible tactic in this fraught and awful moment.

Well. Maybe not the literal worst. He could always run away again.

At least his interruption seems to have stopped John short.

Alexander swallows. "You don't need to apologize. I'm not angry at _you_." Himself on the other hand… Yeah, that's a _whole_ different story. He will grudgingly concede that he doesn't get to take sole credit for this mistake, but what anger he harbors is nonetheless aimed inward.

A knowing look flicks across John's face. "Alexander…"

"This doesn't have to change anything." The assertion is born of desperation. "You're my best friend. I'm not going anywhere, okay?"

The look John gives him then is so incredulous it could almost be funny. 

Alexander gets it. He gets how goddamn ridiculous it is to promise he won't run when he already did. But this is different.

"I'm serious." He's not going to apologize for his escape tactics this morning; he doesn't make a habit of apologizing for decisions he knows _damn well_ he would repeat given the chance for a do-over. "I'm not going to lose you over this. We'll just… Put it behind us and go back to the way things were."

John is quiet for a very long while before saying, "I think I'm gonna need some time." His voice is impossibly soft, and it makes Alexander's chest ache. He's never heard his brash and fearless best friend sound so small.

"I… Yeah. Okay. Whatever you need." It hurts to think of John keeping his distance, and in this moment—more than any before—Alexander wishes he could give a different answer. Wishes like hell he could say, _Maybe we could try dating_ , and make a good faith effort to be more than friends.

But he's not in love with John. One night of exceptional orgasms isn't going to change that fact. And he sure as hell can't be a good boyfriend if he always feels like he's faking it.

He's already let John down in a big way. He refuses to set himself up to do even worse.

"I'm sorry." John makes a jerky movement, like he's just barely refrained from striding forward for a reassuring hug—a gesture that would have been perfectly normal between them yesterday, and now comes with too many complications.

"You still don't owe me an apology." Alexander can imagine how stricken he must look, but it's not John's fault. None of this is John's fault. "Just… call me? Eventually? Whenever you're ready. I'll be here."


	5. Peggy Schuyler

The morning he wakes up with Peggy’s face smushed into his shoulder—and Peggy’s arm thrown over his stomach—and Peggy’s warmth all along his side, he doesn’t waste so much as an instant wondering what to do. Of course he needs to make a discreet exit. Angelica is going to straight up kill him if she catches him in Peggy’s bed.

For once all of his very few things—clothes, shoes, wallet, keys—are right here in the room. They stumbled laughing into the sisters’ apartment already knowing _damn well_ where they were headed, and Peggy had waited until they were in her bedroom before starting to tug at the buttons of Alexander’s shirt. No alcohol between them—Peggy forgot her fake ID and Alexander wasn’t in the mood to drink—but the giddy energy of the party carried them even as they abandoned the festivities in favor of finding someplace to be alone.

Even with no hangover, Alexander feels lightheaded. Not to mention disoriented at the simple ludicrous fact that last night he thought sleeping with _Peggy Schuyler_ sounded like a good idea.

Never mind how cute she looks sprawled into the empty space Alexander just vacated, or how thrilling the memory of mischievous eyes glittering at him in invitation. This right here is a mistake of epic proportion, and step one—before Alexander can even begin to engage his brain without panicking—is to get the fuck out of dodge.

By the time he’s dressed and ready to make his escape, he can hear movement on the other side of the door, in the common areas of the apartment. God damn it. No way to tell if it’s Eliza or Angelica out there, but either way Alexander doesn’t want to show his face.

Angelica’s wrath will be potent, but Eliza’s quiet disappointment might be worse. He can’t deal with either one. He turns to consider the window instead.

To his sincere surprise, the window looks like a viable option. The Schuylers live on the fifth floor, but Peggy’s room faces a side alley with accompanying fire escape. Even better, the late spring weather and brightening daylight mean it will be warm enough not to matter if he can’t close the window all the way behind him. He’ll have no trouble getting out clean.

One last glance confirms first, that he is not forgetting anything. And second, that Peggy is still asleep. She looks far more angelic like this than she ever does while conscious, no sign of the perpetual clever attitude that she wears as easily as breathing. Alexander can only imagine how irritated she’ll be on waking to discover him gone—surely he is about to earn her disdainful judgment for a good long while—but she won’t be surprised.

She knows him too well.

Even now Alexander moves cautiously. He is grateful the window doesn’t squeak on opening, and he slips out onto the fire escape in near perfect silence. Then pulls the window shut again behind him, as quietly and completely as he can manage, before making his way down to the pavement.

He’s not paying enough attention as he emerges from the narrow little alley and onto open sidewalk. It’s a weekday, and late enough in the morning for the streets to be full of people hurrying to work. Two steps into the stream of rushing humans, and Alexander bumps directly into someone. Not hard, but clumsily enough to be noticed.

He scrambles to the edge of the sidewalk and raises his eyes, ready with an apology—

Only to find John Laurens blinking at him in what looks to be a perfect amalgam of surprise and confusion. John’s gaze holds on Alexander for a minute, then cuts back toward the alley he came from. Brows furrow, then rise high as John apparently realizes what building he and Alexander are standing beside.

John knows where the Schuylers live, and he is more than clever enough to connect these dots. Especially given the hour of the day. Especially given the disheveled state of Alexander, his hair down and his collar loose and one of his shoes untied.

_Especially_ when John was at the same damn party last night, and pays enough attention to recognize that he is wearing yesterday’s clothes.

“ _Really_ , Alexander?” John asks. But despite the incredulous tone, there is humor in the question. It sounds grudging—as though John does not _want_ to be amused—but genuine just the same.

Alexander gives a shrug and a sheepish smile. There’s no point obfuscating. Sure, it’s been months since the last time he screwed up in this particular way—and with John, no less—but he _has_ already demonstrated a pattern for letting sex encroach on his friendships.

Belatedly, John follows him out of the flow of pedestrians, and positions himself at Alexander’s side.

“Tell me you did _not_ fall into bed with Angelica again,” John pleads. Alexander takes heart at the fact that he sounds exasperated but not hurt. There are, blessedly, no signs of the wounded edges that have been slowly healing since last semester.

“I’d be happy to tell you that,” Alexander agrees, “if you’ll let me buy you coffee.” He can’t really afford to buy John coffee, but he’ll make it work somehow. He needs to. They’ve been maintaining such a strange and hesitant orbit, all through winter and spring, and now that they’re creeping towards equilibrium again Alexander _needs this_. He needs his best friend back.

Whether reading the desperation in the offer or simply reaching the same conclusions himself, John says, “Coffee sounds great.”

Relief widens Alexander’s smile, and he turns to lead the way.

It’s a full two weeks before Peggy manages to corner him—tougher for her since they don’t attend the same school—and Alexander is relieved to be confronted with Peggy and not Angelica. He might not be looking forward to Peggy’s reaction, but she’s a whole lot less terrifying than her sister.

Than _either one_ of her sisters, if he’s being entirely honest. The thought of Eliza’s disappointment scares him just as much as the prospect of Angelica’s protective anger.

The fact that Peggy finds him at home is probably inevitable. He’s been responding to text messages—no good can come of ghosting her completely—but giving cagey replies every time she suggests meeting up isn’t much better. Refusing to _talk_ isn’t much better. And he has very staunchly avoided answering any actual phone calls, even though he knows damn well Peggy only resorts to them in extremity.

Seems she’s finally decided to call him out, and her method is to turn up in his kitchen and wait for him to get home. There’s no sign of Hercules, and Alexander has no idea how she managed to get into the building.

“Did you _break into my apartment_?” He asks as he hoists the heavy backpack off his shoulders and sets it by the table.

She quirks a single eyebrow at him and, instead of answering, says, “It’s time for you to stop avoiding me.” She’s perched on the counter near the fridge, her makeup perfect and hair a mess, clothing the kind of mismatched skirt and t-shirt combo that only comes out on laundry day.

“I’m not avoiding you. I’ve been busy.”

“You’re a shitty liar,” she retorts. Then, peering at him so hard he has to resist the urge to hide under the table. “You didn’t avoid Angelica this long.”

“Oh my god, can we please not talk about your sister.” Alexander pulls out one of the chairs and sits down at the table, collapsing into a slouch and burying his face in his arms.

“You realize she knows, right? She’s not gonna murder you or get jealous or… whatever the hell else you’re worried about. It’s not that big a deal.”

Alexander raises his head and gawps at Peggy with wide eyes. “She _knows_?”

Peggy gives him a pitying look.

Alexander swallows and admits, “Fine. I’ve been avoiding you. I’m sorry.”

“Are you ready to stop? Or do you need to drown in the dramatics for another couple weeks?” The words are cool, and a little too cutting, and Alexander flinches. It’s a fair question. He’s an asshole for staying in hiding this long. He _likes_ Peggy. He likes being around all three of the Schuyler women, and he’s missed them more than he cares to admit.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats.

His sincerity must reach past the worst of her frustrations, because a moment later Peggy’s expression softens into something more like sympathy than ire. “Y’know. This might sound harsh. But if you’re gonna keep freaking out afterwards, maybe you should _stop_ sleeping with your friends.”

“Ouch.” Her point is blunt but accurate, landing perfectly atop several hookups’ worth of lingering guilt.

“I’m just saying.” One of Peggy’s shoulders rises in a shrug. “The whole friends-with-benefits thing isn’t much fun if you make a whole ordeal out of it every time.”

Alexander is quiet for a very long time before admitting, “Maybe I'm _not_ cut out for friends-with-benefits.” Obviously he’s not capable of keeping his head clear—can’t be trusted not to hurt people—and it’s not as though he has a rational reason for the way he keeps taking off. Even when he tries to pin down the problem, the contours are too complicated, edges blurring together into strange shapes. A little bit irrational guilt, a little bit pridefulness, a little bit fear of letting people down.

A little bit of so very many things that all seem like no big deal until he’s waking up the morning after with the irrational compulsion to _run_.

It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy sex. It’s more that he can’t seem to untangle it enough from his heart to let it be simple, straightforward fun. He can’t turn off his stubborn and noisy brain and just have a good time—at least not when it comes to waking up in someone else’s bed and wondering how he landed there.

His rational mind says he’s being ridiculous. The rest of him is finally ready to concede that casual sex isn’t in his constitution. He simply isn’t wired that way, no matter how much he might wish otherwise.

“Hey,” Peggy cuts in, and even though her voice is soft, it effectively breaks in on the loud terrain of Alexander’s inner thoughts.

He looks up and finds uncharacteristic gentleness in her expression.

“I really am sorry, Peg.” He doesn’t know why he says it again, but it feels important.

“I’m getting that,” she says. “You know we’re gonna be okay, right? We just won’t screw around again, and _you_ won’t have any new reasons to freak, and we’ll be friends until the sun burns out. Deal?”

It sounds almost too good to be true, but Alexander finds a smile somewhere and answers, “Deal.”


	6. George Washington

Alexander wakes this time with a more gradual slide to awareness. He feels drowsy and safe, content to linger in a state of sleepy confusion. The pillow beneath his head is impossibly soft, the blankets heavy, and somehow the warmth of whoever is holding him doesn’t seem urgent.

Important, yes, but also perfectly comfortable. He has no desire to wriggle free.

His brain catches up to reality soon enough. Surprise makes him blink and stare, taking in the sight of Washington’s face at close range.

No. Not Washington. _George_. Alexander can use the man’s first name after last night.

George’s eyes are closed. His expression is slack, his chest rising and falling steadily. His arm drapes loosely around Alexander’s waist, keeping him close.

They’re both naked—of course they are—and for all that Alexander should probably consider the merits of removing himself from this bed, he drinks in the sight of George’s bare chest and shoulders instead.

He _should_ get out of bed. Of all the morning’s he’s begun by sneaking out like a thief, surely this is his worst indulgence yet. He’s in _George Washington’s bed_ naked and thoroughly fucked—when he shifts even a little he can feel the deep-seated ache—and pragmatism says he should not stay.

But Alexander can’t bring himself to leave. Never mind all the reasons this is a terrible idea: the fact that George is still a member of the faculty, even if Alexander no longer attends any of his classes. The vast gulf in their ages and social stations. The possibility George might not be pleased to find Alexander in his arms.

None of those things can compete with the fact that Alexander is _here_. That George brought him home last night—let Alexander kiss him—led the way to the bedroom, then stripped him with a slow reverence that left Alexander’s head and heart spinning.

Even with the evidence of his own senses, Alexander can’t quite believe last night happened. Every step in the sequence of his evening seems too unlikely. From finding himself at the same stodgy bar as his former professor—not a locale Alexander could normally afford, but John demanded backup for a meeting with his father—to stumbling on Professor Washington _alone_ at the tail end of the night.

Staying, talking, feeling the familiar intensity of George’s unyielding focus. Alexander was bursting with adrenaline when he finally worked up the nerve to lean in and set a hand on George’s thigh.

He remembers with beautiful clarity the way George was watching him the instant before—an elbow on the table and chin resting in one hand—index finger curled up over his mouth as though trying to hide a half smile curling at the corners. And then, even more vividly, the widening eyes and hitch of breath in answer to Alexander’s hopeful touch.

In all his time fantasizing, Alexander never quite convinced himself an overture would be welcome. He’d hoped, but hope can be irrational. Hope can make stupid risks seem too appealing to resist. Hope can get a body in all sorts of ill-considered trouble.

But here he is. Sated and aching and helpless to remove himself from the situation. He’s wanted this too long to let the consequences scare him off now.

There’s a moment of startled stillness when George blinks awake, but the confusion fades from his gorgeous brown eyes. Then, before Alexander can finish bracing for rejection, his expression breaks into an enormous smile.

Alexander has never seen George Washington smile like this. Wide and sunny and expressive—the absolute opposite of the man's usual stern countenance. The closest he's ever glimpsed is a twitch of amusement, barely discernible on George's face, when Alexander verbally eviscerates his classmates. This expression doesn't even live in the same solar system as that one. The honesty in it takes Alexander's breath away.

"You're still here." George tightens his arm around Alexander's waist and tugs him closer.

"Yeah." Alexander allows himself to be pulled into George's space, wriggling forward when there's still too much distance between them. He doesn't wait for George to kiss him—he's too impatient—instead presses right into welcoming heat and takes George's mouth with his own.

Surprise lasts barely an instant before George surges forward, crushing Alexander harder against his chest, steering the kiss somewhere demanding and forceful. A moment later George puts Alexander firmly on his back, pinning him in place. Alexander's heart races with delight at the weight holding him down, the sensation of George on top of him, exactly the way he’s imagined a hundred times. It's even better than his fantasies. George's movements are commanding. Confidence steadies every touch.

By the time the kiss ends, Alexander is lightheaded and greedy for more.

In a teasing voice, hopefully charming despite how breathless he sounds, Alexander asks, "If I promise to be good, will you fuck me again?"

George nuzzles beneath his jaw before easing back to look Alexander in the Eye. "You sure you're up for that?" He asks the question lightly—there's nothing patronizing in his tone—but there’s also genuine caution. George knows last night was Alexander's first time on the receiving end of this particular equation. He _must_ know Alexander is sore.

But Alexander doesn't mind a little pain—hell, he’s honest enough to admit he likes it—and he won’t let it dissuade him now. His blood heats and pools south at the memory of the hot, hard intrusion. More than anything he wants to feel that again. He wants George's hands holding him down, George's weight crushing him with every thrust, George's cock thick inside him.

"Yes," he says, arching encouragingly. " _Please yes_. God, sir, please fuck me."

The 'sir' is an accident. It sneaks thoughtlessly in amid helpless pleading. But instead of slowing George down, it seems to galvanize him, igniting something hot and possessive that turns each touch more purposeful, and earns Alexander a hard bite just below his ear. The bruise will be impossible to hide, and Alexander doesn’t care; he whimpers and tips his head back, baring his throat.

There’s no doubt in his mind he’s about to get what he is pleading for.

By the time George begins pressing into him—hips fitted snugly between splayed thighs, fingers pulling his hair—Alexander is so aroused he can barely breathe. The intimate ache is almost too much, and he buries a moan against George's shoulder. George's breath is hot on his skin, and powerful hands hold him still.

The pain, fleeting as it is, enthralls him. It ignites pleasure all along Alexander's nerves, and he tries to raise his hips, tries to take _more_ of the length filling him so gradually.

But George holds him still, refusing to rush. Instead it's a slow tease, a transition so gradual Alexander is squirming by the time George finally stops—by the time George has no farther to go.

There are several seconds of stillness, so deliberate Alexander opens his eyes and looks up into George's face. The hungry affection he finds there sets off butterflies in his stomach, and he sucks in a rush of air. George is an overwhelming presence, taking up every inch of Alexander's senses.

"George?" he says.

Alexander squeaks in surprise—possibly the least dignified sound he’s ever made—at the unexpected crush of a new kiss. Even more demanding than the last one, this kiss claims him so forcefully his head spins.

George nips almost playfully at Alexander's lower lip as he withdraws. He’s smiling again, and it might be the most beautiful smile Alexander has ever seen.

Then George moves, a slow and deliberate roll of hips, and the pleasure knocks Alexander flat. He gasps and arches, raises his hips to meet the next thrust. And the next. He savors the edge of too much, the soreness alongside sparks of giddy sensation.

It lasts an exceptionally long time. Longer than their activities the night before. Longer than Alexander thinks he can bear, yet somehow he rides the crest of pleasure without tipping over the edge. His thighs begin to tremble from being spread so wide, and his muscles grow tired, and his ass begins to ache in ways he will be aware of for days.

George finishes first, then reaches between their bodies and strokes Alexander to completion. It's a phenomenal orgasm—maybe even better than last night—and Alexander is panting hard when the world at last stops tilting.

George watches him with satisfaction that borders on smugness. Alexander has never seen him look smug before. It's appealing as hell. Then again, why should George get to think he has the upper hand?

Alexander pitches his voice rough and breathless. "Thank you, sir."

The glimmering smugness is immediately subsumed beneath a more ferocious expression, and George drags him close again. Kisses him again. Alexander clings, welcoming the greedy sweep of George's tongue, savoring the relentless show of strength.

Eventually they both subside. This time there’s something almost sheepish in George's eyes. A softer smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

"I need to shower," George announces bluntly. "You're welcome to join me."

Of course Alexander follows. Into the shower, and then after, into the kitchen at the other end of the condo. He wears yesterday's clothes—it's not as though he has others to change into—and with every step he feels more rumpled and awkward. His skin is still flushed from the heat of the water, and his damp hair has soaked through the back of his shirt. Surely he doesn’t look nearly as appealing in the unflattering light of morning.

But George pauses on his way to the coffeemaker, just long enough to drape himself along Alexander's back and kiss his pulse point. By the time Alexander registers the casual intimacy, George is past him and opening a cupboard.

"I'm going to assume we _both_ require coffee," George says cheerfully. "Do you want breakfast?"

Alexander's head reels as he steps closer, hovering at George's elbow. There’s no point hiding how badly he craves the proximity.

"Yeah," he says. "Breakfast sounds great."

**Author's Note:**

> Hamilton/Washington is the endgame for this fic. Everyone else ranges from simple to complicated along the way, but ultimately Alexander does not lose any of his friends.


End file.
